


you are a crowded stranger

by acertainheight



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: ...sort of?, 5+1 Things, F/F, Hawke Has PTSD, Hurt/Comfort, and it's just as much about that as it is about heartbreak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-15 18:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5795680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acertainheight/pseuds/acertainheight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five stages of grief, and the one moment when all the rest stops mattering. (Or: the one where Isabela runs away for three years and Hawke slowly tries to put herself back together again.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are a crowded stranger

**Author's Note:**

> it's an odd sort of nervous feeling to finally post something after over a year! this is mostly about heartbreak and trauma and their messy intersections. and, er, also the power of friendship. set in the same universe as all my other Hawke/Isabela stories. I've got lots of things (SO many) in progress so hopefully it won't be another year before some of them make it on here! (title from [x](https://www.musixmatch.com/lyrics/Girlpool-2/Crowded-Stranger).)

i.

Grief moves in stages, Aveline tells her. She counts them off on her fingers, sounding uncertain of the order, and smiles when she's done, as if she's really found the cure to heartache in the dog-eared pages of the book in her lap. She brings the book each time she comes to visit, a gesture wasted on Hawke—it's been nearly a week now since the fever spat her back out into consciousness, but Hawke still can't hold her head up for more than a few minutes at a time, and the words swim uselessly in front of her eyes when she tries to focus on the pages. Aveline's taken to simply using the book as a prop, thumping it with one hand as she lectures Hawke on how _this could_ _help you, honestly, if you would only listen._

“See?” Aveline says, not waiting for an answer. “I know everything feels hard right now, but it's just a matter of following the right steps. It's all here in the book.”

Aveline has always been so good at dismantling the impossible, transforming it into something she can master; Hawke has never been able to do the same. She's always taken the impossible head-on, outmatched from the very beginning.

But she nods and mumbles in vague agreement, because she knows that's what Aveline wants so desperately to hear. It seems like the very least that she can do for her stalwart bedside sentry. Hawke doesn't need a lesson on grief, of course; she knows loss as intimately as she knows her own self by now, and she knows that her grief has always been too wild and shapeless for these little boxes that Aveline clings to. Still, she is grateful nonetheless for the way Aveline offers up comforting little lies instead of the _I told you so_  that she has so rightfully earned.

“It was like this with Wesley,” Aveline continues, “and look how happy I am now. The first step is hard, but you've got to get past denial before you can move on.” 

For a fleeting second, Hawke wants to laugh at how little she deserves this, how they both must know it deep down—how Aveline's brave husband dying in her arms has nothing in common with Isabela fleeing Kirkwall for the second time. But she can't find the strength to laugh, so instead she takes a shaky breath. “I'm not grieving and I'm not in denial. She's coming back.”

“Oh, Hawke,” Aveline exhales. Something in her voice makes Hawke's stomach twist.

It always comes back to this: saccharine sighs and sad smiles, condescension masquerading as sympathy, more galling than the pain itself. Sometimes Aveline's voice will tighten with a flash of the frustration Hawke knows she must feel, but she always catches herself—presses her lips together, takes a deep breath, and lowers her voice to gentle, cloying pity.

The others are no better; her friends come to visit one at a time, staring at her like she's something they might break. Varric laughs nervously when he tells her what a good story this will make—“someday,” he's always quick to add, “when it's not so shitty.” Merrill sits as quiet as she's ever been, unable to do anything but cling to Hawke's hand and sniffle softly. Fenris makes small talk from behind gritted teeth, clenching and unclenching his fists. Anders comes to check on her each morning, offering words of comfort and sparks of magic to ease the pain, but his hollow eyes never brighten even when he smiles.

And Isabela—well, Isabela hasn't come. Not yet.

“I know you don't have any faith in her,” Hawke says, “but I do. She came back once, didn't she?”

“She left you twice,” Aveline counters—and there's that edge peeking through. Hawke seizes on it, unable to stop herself from trying to claw Aveline's anger out into the open; she aims her chin like a weapon, ready to declare war armed with nothing more than blind belligerence.

“She'll come back. She will. I know her.”

“I wanted to believe in her, too,” Aveline snaps. She has a white-knuckled grip on the book in her lap. “We _all_ wanted to believe in her, but she's gone, Hawke. And one of these days, you'll have to accept that she clearly doesn't give a damn about you. Or any of us.”

It's not the first time they've had this conversation, but it's the first time Aveline has risen to the challenge; Hawke jerks back like she's been struck, and a moment passes before she finds her voice: “You can't make me give up on her. I won't.”

Aveline closes her eyes, her jaw working silently, as if it's taking every last bit of her considerable strength to tamp down her frustration. When she speaks at last, she sounds more weary than upset. “I just... I don't want you to be disappointed, that's all. You don't remember things like the rest of us do.”

Hawke can't explain her certainty; the fever devoured her memories, left her with little more than a lingering sense of dread. Her nightmares only further blur the lines of reality and fantasy, so vivid that she wakes up sweating and retching most nights. Fear and fact and fiction, all jumbled together.

But then there are the flashes of consciousness that she couldn't forget even if she tried: the last gurgling roar of the Arishok as he hit the floor, the dizzying drop of her own knees giving way beneath her, everything inside of her threatening to spill past her clutching hands—Isabela's scream as she tore out of Aveline's grasp and across the chamber, Isabela's nails digging half-moons into her arm, Isabela, _Isabela—_

 _I did it for you,_ Hawke remembers, the words barely more than a breath, almost inaudible in the thunderous room. She can't recall her own response—some wild desperate jest, a plea—but she remembers Isabela's laugh, high and cracked and unfamiliar, and the pressure of firm hands over her own. _I'll kill you if you die on me, Hawke._ And then, frantic: _Hold on,_ _please hold on, please, it was always about you._

She remembers shouting, Anders pushing through the crowd with white-hot magic already crackling down his staff and up his arms, forcing everyone aside—everyone but Isabela, stubborn hands imbrued with Hawke's blood, holding her steady until the moment everything went black.

But it's all foggy and distant, as elusive as smoke through her fingers, and she doesn't know how to explain her belief in something so uncertain to Aveline—Aveline, who has only ever believed in the things that she can hold in her hands.

“I'm sorry. For being difficult.” Hawke offers the truce haltingly and half-heartedly, too tired to fight. She watches relief spread through Aveline, the way the lines around her eyes lighten and the way her shoulders sag, and swallows back the sour tang of guilt. Aveline has been so kind, so generous, so undeserving of this. “Agree to disagree?”

“It doesn't do any good to dwell on—on her. Anders says you have to think positively if you want to recover.”

“Alternatively, I could think negatively, stay in this bed forever, and live off an endless supply of sympathy casseroles,” Hawke suggests. The joke rings hollow in her ears, but it's enough to make Aveline laugh, which must count for something.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Varric and Merrill are in the kitchen right now polishing off whatever new delights line your counters.” They both smile, awkward, and Aveline tries again: “I hear they're planning some massive ceremony for you. Soon you'll officially be the Champion of Kirkwall. That's exciting, isn't it?”

Hawke knows she's supposed to care about that, but it sounds so absurd—the city's hero, stuck flat on her back in bed, Kirkwall somehow still standing despite a truly astounding series of miscalculations and blunders. But Aveline is staring at her with that big expectant smile and Hawke does her best to match it again. “I hope that doesn't mean I'll have to start acting respectable in public.”

“It's wonderful,” Aveline says, earnest as ever. “It really is. You're finally being recognized for everything you've done for the city.”

“That's nice.” All of a sudden, Hawke feels drained and dizzy—bloodless. It occurs to her that she can't feel her fingers, and she spends a minute trying to win a twitch from unwilling muscles before she remembers to look up and meet Aveline's gaze again. “It's really nice,” she echoes. 

Aveline nods, resigned; she's stopped resisting the abrupt end to all their visits by now, accepting if not quite understanding the waves of dark exhaustion that Hawke has struggled to explain so many times. “I'll let you rest.”

But halfway out the door, she pauses, illuminated by the dim light of the hall. “We all miss you, you know.”

“I'm not dead,” Hawke says, staring at the ceiling. “You don't have to keep acting like I am.” She doesn't look back at Aveline, and after a minute, the door shuts with a soft click. Hawke wonders what she'll say when the others ask for a report. _She's doing alright, for someone neck-deep in denial._

It's a long time before she can sleep, and when she does, she dreams of fire and blood and cool hands on her forehead.

ii.

Hawke examines the empty bottle like some ancient artifact, trailing her fingers along the cool glass curves as she turns it over and then over again. Green as the sea; hollow, murky, heavy in her hands. There's a metaphor in there somewhere, she thinks, probably something very poetic, buried beneath the roar of her headache. She doesn't remember drinking this much the night before, but it's hard to argue with indisputable evidence.

She'd been planning to save this bottle for today. Looks like it's a bit late for that now. “You're up,” she declares, and nudges a second bottle with her foot.

And then, in a flash, a cold fist closes around her heart. She recognizes this one. If she wasn't already committed to a busy day of getting dead-drunk in the dark, she might consider returning it to her neighbors:  _So very sorry, my pirate girlfriend—well, actually it's complicated, I guess we were just friends who had incredible sex, but we aren't now—friends, I mean, not the sex thing, but that too—anyway, we broke into your house and raided your wine cellar. So here's this back. Have a lovely afternoon, Gertrude._

Hawke decides that maybe she's losing it. She snatches the bottle off the floor and decides to hurry up the process.

It's something fancy, rosy and lovely and nothing at all like the murky swill she's been intimately acquainting herself with lately. They'd been saving it. A special occasion, Isabela had said, smile lightning-bright with one of those promises that was always implied and never fulfilled. Hawke grits her teeth, drives a knife into the cork, and forces it down in dusty pieces into the bottle. "Cheers," she says. Her chest feels a little lighter with every sip.

She's halfway through the bottle and nearly winning a very philosophical argument with herself about the meaning of life (answer: expensive stolen wine) when a knock on the door seems to rock the whole estate. The bottle slips right out of her shaking hands; she bites her tongue bloody with a choked-back curse. She hovers frozen, not quite breathing, watching the spilled wine chart a river across her rug. If she can just stay quiet long enough—

Another knock makes her head spin and her teeth rattle. And then another. And another. And then, suddenly, silence.

Just when she's starting to think she might be safe after all, the door flies open.

The stout silhouette in her doorway is undeniably Varric; she aims her gaze at a distant corner of the room, steadfastly refusing to look at him, and wonders if he'll go away if she just pretends he's not here. Maybe he won't notice her—if she holds very, very still—

“Hawke! What the hell is happening here?” His footsteps echo the slam of the door, and when she rolls over to face him, he's glaring down from right above her, hands on his hips. This, she supposes, is the downside to a best friend with a penchant for stern lectures _and_ breaking and entering. Terrible combination.

“Oh,” she mumbles. “Ah, shit.” She has a feeling that she's a tragic sight, sprawled on the wine-stained rug, fire blazing in the middle of summer, all the curtains drawn. “It's not as bad as it looks, maybe,” she tries.

Varric shakes his head. “Don't tell me you're drunk.”

“Sort of. But I'm trying to get drunker. More drunk. Drunkerer.”

“Andraste's soiled fuckin' knickers, look at you holed up in here! You should be celebrating! You can walk, Anders says you'll be fighting again soon, you're the Champion of Kirkwall! What are you _doing_?”

“Trying to get drunk,” she reminds him.

“Well, find a different hobby,” Varric says. He grabs her by the shoulders and hauls her to her unsteady feet, ignoring her protestations. “Let's get you out of here, alright? Go get some fresh air, maybe something to eat?”

“I can't.”

“Of course you can.” He crosses his arms and lifts one heavy brow.

Her chest aches under the weight of his incredulity. It's so easy for him, for all of them: _Stand and be healed_. Like it's as simple as one foot in front of the other. A shout to a drowning woman:  _Swim._ But lately it feels like it's all she can do to come up for air.

“I'm just—” Hawke wobbles and drops back onto the floor, gesturing to fill the gaps as she stumbles over her words. “Nothing is normal when I go out there. I hate it. I want to stay here.”

“You got impaled on the world's largest salad fork. You almost died. You can't expect things to be normal right away. But things won't  _get_ normal if you just sit around drinking all day.”

Her mouth feels dry; she licks her lips. “Watch me.”

“Listen,” he snaps, a sudden hot spark—half-pleading, half-livid—in his eyes, “you're not the only one having a shitty time, okay? But you don't get to lock yourself inside and leave the rest of us out here alone. We're all grieving, not just you.”

She pauses for a moment, taking that in, and then nods sagely. “Aveline would say you need to work on your anger. Has she lectured you on that?”

Varric's glare falters, belied by a flickering grin and at last thoroughly dispelled by a roar of laughter; Hawke grins, too, and for one brief moment, everything feels almost normal, the two of them lost in some private joke. “Of course she fuckin' has. She diagnosed you lately?”

“Depression, last I heard,” Hawke says. She shrugs. “Which is fair, I guess, although her ability to quote long passages of prose is getting a little disturbing.”

“Cut her some slack. Red's doing her best, in her own freaky way. We all are.”

Hawke looks at her hands; they're shaking slightly, and she wishes she had a bottle to clutch to keep them steady. Her stomach flips when she looks up and sees his eyes trained on her, and she shoves her hands beneath her thighs. “What are you grieving, anyway?”

He frowns. “We all thought you were a goner, Hawke. And now it's like you're trying to finish the job. I know this thing is hard, but—the rest of us care about you, okay? I don't want to lose you, too.”

When he holds out a hand, something inside her crumbles. Hawke exhales and rubs at her eyes. “Okay, okay. The guilt trip is working. Let's go—get some sunlight, or whatever. Nature. My favorite.”

He laughs again, and she almost thinks that this might not be such a terrible idea.

And it's not so bad, not at first. Varric takes it slow, letting her grip his shoulder for support and relaying all the latest gossip in his comforting rumble of a voice, but they've barely made it three steps into the market when Hawke starts to feel the city walls closing in on her. There's a leering ghost in every corner: the merchant who chased Hawke and Isabela all the way to the harbor one night, their pockets full of worthless costume jewelry; the distinctly-singed storefronts that haven't reopened yet, not since Hawke picked love and sent the city up in flames; all the smiling faces that she can't help but flinch away from. She can feel every eye on her, can sense the whispers.  _The Champion,_  she hears, not sure if it's real or in her head, and a wave of nausea hits her.

“I have to go,” Hawke gasps, cutting him off in the middle of a sentence. She can feel the panic pressing the air from her lungs like a vise, strangling her. It's too much, too soon, too everything. “I can't—I can't be here. I have, I—I have to get out of here.”

“Hawke,” Varric starts, but she's not listening. She stumbles away from him, tripping over her own feet, and pushes her way through the crush of the crowd. She feels like an impostor, like all of a sudden everyone will realize that she's not worthy of their adulation and turn on her. Part of her wishes they would—that the crowd would surge and crash over her and wash her away from Kirkwall once and for all.

She staggers into the first quiet refuge she finds, a dark and unfamiliar back alley. The panic drives her to her knees, her palms scraping against the rocky ground, and she vomits until she can't do anything but cough, empty and useless. Each ragged breath shakes her from head to toe; her heart feels like it might burst. She clutches at the raw scar across her stomach with one hand, half-terrified of coming apart again right there in the alley.

It's been a month. A month and she still can't lift a sword, a month and Isabela's still gone, a month and it still only takes seconds to turn her into this woman she doesn't recognize, crumpled and sobbing and afraid. _This happens sometimes after something traumatic_ _,_ Anders told her once, when she was brave enough to ask him what was wrong with her— _it's normal to have these moments._ Hawke wants to claw herself to pieces until she never has to feel like this again.

Varric finds her there, slumped against the wall, face buried in her hands. She senses him before she can see him and hastily wipes at her burning eyes.

“I don't understand,” she says; he settles a hand on her shoulder, and when she weakly tries to shake him off, he pulls her into his arms instead. She doesn't resist. “I don't understand how the world can be ending for me and not for anybody else.”

“The world isn't ending, Hawke. It just feels like that right now.”

Somehow, that doesn't help very much.

iii.

The sword slices through the air an inch from her head. Hawke flings herself to the side just in time, skidding across the floor before she leaps back, her blade flashing up to meet the other with an earth-shaking clang. She blinks, desperate to clear the sweat and dust from her eyes, but in the span of a second, she loses sight of her opponent. She spins and they lock eyes again: Fenris is grinning, cold and dangerous, holding his blade as if it were as light as a feather.

“Are you ready to give in?” he asks. She charges forward as her answer.

She swears he's unbeatable, a man half-possessed on the battlefield, but he's the only one she'll train with, no matter how unevenly matched they are now. They've been here every day in a musty back room in his mansion, locking blades until she inevitably collapses. She's made the others all spar with her at least once, but they still treat her like she's made of glass. Only Fenris understands—only Fenris doesn't pity her. He fights to win, never relenting, mocking and taunting and pushing her on.

It's been nearly six months to the day now without a glimpse of her favorite sparring partner, but she's trying not to think about that lately. Trying not to think about all the times they fought, laughing out bold challenges, moving in a rhythm so perfect that neither could gain the upper hand, a dizzying blur that always ended with them tangled in a heap. If she strains, she can almost hear Isabela, a ghost in her ear:

_Let's see what you've got, sweet thing._

_What are you compensating for with that big bad sword, hm?_  

_Kiss me like that again and I just might let you win next time._

Hawke shudders, gasps, tries to push the sudden grief back into the deepest, darkest corner of her mind where it belongs—

It's just an instant, but it's long enough for her to falter. “Pathetic,” Fenris spits, and with one thrust he sends her careening back. “You'll have to do better than that.”

She feels like she's standing in water to her knees, fighting the tide to stay on her feet. Her fingers have gone numb around the hilt of her sword; she's surprised to see it still in her hands as he crashes into her again.

“Fuck off,” she pants. The words are more breath than sound, and he laughs like a man who's already won. Her sword feels so very heavy. Every swing sends a jolt down her stiff arms, collecting in a tight knot of pain in her middle.

Their blades meet again. For an instant, she thinks her knees might buckle, but by some miracle, she's still standing as they slide apart. Sweat drips into her eyes, blinds her, glues her hair to her forehead. She feels like she might tear in two with one more hit. With each blow, he flickers before her eyes, shifting from a friend to a different ghost—this one broad-shouldered, horned, sword in one hand and axe in the other. She can feel the blood bubbling up in her throat, pushing past her lips; she's _dying_ , she knows it, she can feel every second of it. And then she chokes on nothing at all and Fenris becomes himself again, no sign in his haughty stare that he can sense the panic constricting around her with every rapid breath.

“And they call you the Champion,” he says. “You're nothing like the woman you once were.”

All she can manage is a hoarse gasp of a roar. She steps forward—or rather, falls forward, swinging at him with the full force of her collapsing body. He stumbles at the impact of the blow and she pushes forward. She feels almost like herself again, fury burning through her veins, granting her the strength for one more swing—

And then she's on her knees, her sword clanging out a deathknell as it falls from her hands. As she sways there, unsteady, the hot tip of his sword presses to her neck.

“I win again,” he says. And then: “Hawke, are you alright?”

She tries to speak but the words stick in her mouth. She touches her cheek and pulls her hand away to stare at it, startled by the presence of tears.

“Hawke,” Fenris repeats, looking something between uncertain and mortified. He pats her shoulder awkwardly. “I did not—I was not trying to upset you. Perhaps we should retire for the day. A drink?”

She nods and he tugs her to her feet, guiding her upstairs to his shabby study with an arm around her waist. Shrouded in the cool darkness of the chamber, she collapses into a chair and allows herself to breathe.

He hovers above her, a fearsome excuse for a mother hen, and clears his throat. “You know I do not mean the things that I said. I only meant to urge you on.”

She shakes her head. “I know. You were fine, it's all me. I just—”

“It's a sore subject,” he offers. She nods, and he sighs, eyes dark with sympathy. “I understand. I know that—” And now it's his turn to struggle, brow creasing in a frown, before he finds his voice: “I know that some wounds are slow to heal. Inside, that is. If you ever wish to discuss that, then... Well, know that I am here. I am not sure if I can comfort you, but I will understand.”

A smile flickers across her face; she feels just a little less weary. “Thank you.”

“Has Aveline asked you to expound on your anger?” Fenris asks. Hawke glances at him, one brow raised, and he chuckles. “The first week, when you were still unconscious—she gave me lecture after lecture about anger. Perhaps because I kept hitting your walls. I can see it in you, too.”

Hawke tries to deflect. “What were you mad about?”

“I was angry with the Arishok for what he did to you. I was angry with myself for not coming to your aid. I was angry with you for nearly dying. And I was angry with Isabela for returning only to leave again. You're angry with her, too,” Fenris suggests. 

“No! I'm mad—I'm mad at myself for becoming so fucking weak and useless, and I'm mad that everyone thinks it's all about her, and I'm mad—”

“At her for leaving you like this,” he persists. He rummages in a corner and, somewhat miraculously, lifts a dusty bottle up from amid the clutter. "Do not aim your anger squarely at yourself."

Hawke lets out a hoarse, hollow laugh. “But I'm not supposed to be mad at her. I'm supposed to be understanding, and I'm allowed to be sad, but I'm not allowed to be mad.”

“Not allowed by who? You?” Fenris scoffs. “There are too many rules in this world without setting them for yourself.” He opens the bottle and presses it into her hands before dropping into a chair beside her. “Anger is good. It makes you stronger than your enemies.”

She laughs again and drinks deeply, grateful for something to wash the dust out of her mouth and ease the racing of her heart; she's not drinking alone these days—not often, at least—but she doesn't hesitate to accept the bottle from him. She'll take her comfort where she can get it. “I don't have any enemies.”

He snorts and reaches to reclaim the bottle. “You don't believe than any more than I do. These people—they call you Champion, but they are not your friends. They will only love you as long as they can use you. And the problems of this city are not yet over.”

“No,” she insists. “I'm not getting caught up in any more drama. I'm done. I'll open up a little shop, sell hats, live a quiet life—”

They exchange a glance and both burst out laughing.

“I suppose I'll have to come up with a different plan for myself, then.”

“A little bit of friendly competition won't hurt you.” 

He smiles. “You fight better when you're angry. You almost had me at the end. Put that into getting stronger. Do not waste it on a woman.” He takes a sip and lifts a brow. “Even a woman as maddening as Isabela.”

Hawke looks away. She wants to object, instinctively her defender, but—it doesn't matter anymore. She's gone. And Isabela never needed Hawke to defend her. Never wanted it. “You were friends. We all were.”

“Of course. Why would I be angry if we had not been friends?”

“I thought I could forgive her.” She picks at a hole in the upholstery and, embarrassed, tries to press the loose threads down flat when the stuffing pokes through. “I thought it would be as easy as understanding her. But it's not.”

“You loved her,” he observes, half a question. She nods, shrugs, nods again. It's never been easy to deny, no matter how many times she's tried—to her friends, to herself, and to Isabela, time and time again.

“I arrived at that conclusion when you let her run off with a priceless Qunari artifact and told the Arishok he'd have to go through you to get it.”

They both laugh again, Hawke startled by the quip and Fenris looking more than a touch pleased with himself. “He _did_ go through me,” she points out, and Fenris lets out another bark of a laugh. She shakes her head. “I guess that's not really funny, is it? The part where I picked Isabela over Kirkwall, I mean. My joke was very funny, as always.”

He grins; he looks like a hungry animal, teeth glinting in the scattershot candlelight. “I do not think the people of Kirkwall would be amused by that version of the story, no. But love is a powerful force. It makes understanding easy and forgiveness hard.” He gestures at her with the bottle. “And it makes fine women into fools.”

She smiles and snatches the bottle back from his hands. “Are you an expert on love now, you big lump?”

“I... Well, I care deeply for our friends. All of them. I understand that even the bloodmage and the abomination do what they believe is right, but I cannot forgive their actions. I understand Varric's insistence that he only follows where the muse leads, but I cannot forgive his recent tale of Thenris the sensual elf.” He shrugs. “And you understand Isabela's fears, but you cannot forgive her for leaving you at your most vulnerable.”

“Yet,” she tries.

He forages for a second bottle beneath his chair, blowing off the dust before opening it. “Do not rush it. Wallow in your anger. As I said, you fight better. And you're more fun to share a drink with, at that.”

“To wallowing in anger,” she suggests, lifting her bottle in a toast.

He lifts his in return, clinking against hers and sending a blood-red splash arcing high above them. “To refusing to bury your feelings.”

“No promises,” she says, and he smiles.

“One day at a time, then.”

That much, at least, she's starting to think she can manage.

iv.

“Two years,” Hawke gripes. “Two years and it still hurts sometimes.”

“Hold still and let me take a look. And stop complaining.”

She complies and lifts her arms up in the air with a pained and only-slightly-theatrical grimace; she can't quite get her right arm as high as her left, and when Anders tries to straighten her elbow, it feels like he might tear her arm right off. She's sick of this, one visit after another to the clinic just for Anders to sigh and shake his head and offer serious platitudes about how healing is a complicated process. But she's three days into jolting pain with every step, and even she can only maintain stubborn defiance for so long. 

“Have you been doing the exercises we practiced?” Anders asks. He goes on before she has a chance to muster a convincing lie: “Hawke, you have to do them, and you have to do them every day.”

“What's the point?” she demands, inhaling sharply when he moves her arm. “You told me they won't do anything anyway.”

“No, I told you that you might not ever have the same mobility you once did. This”—and he points to her bare stomach, cleft by the silvery rope of the scar—“is always going to slow you down. But if you don't do your exercises, you'll keep showing up here after hours complaining about how you can't pick up anything heavier than a handkerchief.”

“I've been doing them for so long! Years, Anders. Literal years." She lifts her brows for dramatic effect; he doesn't look particularly impressed, but he releases her elbow. She gingerly lowers her arm. "Can't I just—I don't know, take a month or six off once in a while?”

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

“I don't want to do them forever,” she says, voice small and weary. She's _been_ doing them forever, a daily reminder of everything she would rather forget. She looks down at her boots and draws a circle in the dirt on the floor. 

“Then stop biting off more than you can chew.” He shakes his head. “Every time you start getting better, you have to go throw yourself off a cliff or down a flight of stairs or right at an angry dragon. If you hadn't insisted on fighting again so soon, we wouldn't be here right now.”

She bites her lip and doesn't meet his eyes. With some effort, she manages to keep her voice bright. “In my defense, I didn't throw myself off the cliff. I just didn't realize the ground ended there.”

“You've never been good at avoiding danger, but now it's like you're chasing it on purpose. Are you alright?” he asks seriously. “You know, these kinds of injuries aren't just physical. They're in your head. A sort of trauma. And taking risks can be a symptom of—”

She shifts. “It's fine. I'm fine.”

“Are you?”

She doesn't know how to answer that. All she can do is shrug and pray that he won't ask any more questions. But of course, it's not as if any of her prayers have been answered lately.

“It's alright to still be troubled,” Anders continues, squeezing her sore shoulder and handing back her tunic. “You were seconds from bleeding out on the floor. Most people wouldn't make it through that with an unscathed mind. I might be able to help you if you would talk to me."

Hawke falters at his words, knotting her fingers in the fabric to stop their sudden shaking. _Seconds from bleeding out on the floor._ She can hear her heartbeat in her ears, can taste the copper tang of blood on her tongue. Her stomach aches like the sword's still lodged there; her whole body feels hot and wet, and then she can't feel it at all.

“Hawke?”

“I'm fine.” She gasps like she's drowning, bobbing up for a second of air. “I'm fine. I'm not most people. You know that.”

He starts to speak again, eyes dark with concern, but she cuts him off. “Don't, Anders. Don't say anything. If I just—focus on moving forward, everything will get back to the way it was.”

He smiles, looking just a little sad, and passes her a tonic for the pain. Something strong, she hopes. “That's a bold bargain. I hope you're right.”

“Almost everything, anyway.” She's trying her hardest to sound light, but something in her voice gives her away.

“Hawke.” He sighs. “You aren't still thinking about Isabela, are you? I thought you just said you were focusing on moving on.”

She shrugs, pulls her tunic over her head, and runs her fingers along the hard line of the scar, still raised to the touch even beneath the fabric. “It's hard to forget. I mean, I've sort of got this giant reminder right here.” 

Anders exhales. He seems exhausted, but then, he always seems exhausted lately; he's thin as a rail, dark circles beneath hollow eyes. Once he would have challenged her, reminded her that she was only here in the first place because of Isabela, but not these days. “She was born to run. You knew that from the start.”

“I know,” Hawke says, “but I just—I kept thinking she would come back if I let her go.”

He snorts. “That was foolish, you know. Poetic, but foolish.”

“Thanks. No one's ever told me that before.” She shakes her head. “I just... I don't know. I mean, what was the point of coming back just to disappear again, you know? And this would all be better if she was here, if I knew it was worth it." She pauses, fumbling for the right words. "I'm moving on. I really am. But I miss her sometimes. Again: giant glaring reminder."

"Hawke," he says, gently, and she looks up. "Even if she were here, you would still have your own recovery to manage. I know it's easy to make it about her, but it's not really like that, you know. The hardest parts would still be plenty hard."

She knows. But it's easier this way—easier to confess to missing Isabela than it is to admit to shaky hands, nightmares, her own body turned strange and unfamiliar. And so she shakes her head and scoffs. "I just miss her, that's all. Don't get dramatic about it."

“I'm sorry,” he says. He looks like he means it, and she feels a flash of guilt. He's always sorry for something these days; he never used to apologize for anything at all. Never used to give in so easily. She wonders if they're all like that lately: a little run down, no spark left.

She touches his arm in a quiet apology. “Don't be. I'll get out of your hair. I've kept you long enough.”

“I'll see you tomorrow, Hawke, alright? And please don't forget to do the exercises. It's that simple. Really.”

 _It's that simple_. Hawke lingers for just a second and then steps out into Darktown.

She takes the long way home. It's a bad habit, really—nothing good can come from walking the streets of Kirkwall alone at night, and she's still not as confident in a fight as she once was—but she's found that she's not much of a target even when she's alone, armor at home. Nobody wants to try to mug the Champion, apparently. Everyone's too busy trading rumors to notice that she's stiff and tired and worn down. But she's not complaining; she's glad for the chance to drift, for any excuse to avoid going home to that big empty house.

It's easy to get lost even on these familiar streets, walking with her head tilted back and making casual wishes on every star in the sky. Every back alley of Kirkwall looks the same to tired eyes. It's only when she turns the corner that she realizes where she is. She drifts to a standstill and stares up at the pale face of the chantry. The statues stare back, a silent, inscrutable taunt.

She takes the steps two at a time. She tests the door—unlocked, of course, which seems vaguely unwise, the crime rates of this city considered—and haltingly steps inside. It's still and dark as a tomb. Empty. Hollow.

“And she went to the chantry and she begged. Canticle of Marian,” she says softly, listening as her voice bounces off the high ceiling. “Stanza one, verse one.”

It's odd to be here, she thinks, in a place so rife with ghosts. She pauses. She's not sure if it's her imagination, but if she squints, she can almost see the bloodstains still on the stones. It's been five years since that night, but her memory burns just as brightly as ever of that very first mess they fell into. Closer to six years every day; it won't be long before Isabela's been gone longer than Hawke ever knew her. The thought nearly knocks the breath out of her.

Even then, when Isabela was just a charming stranger, she would have followed her anywhere, would have done anything for her. It hadn't taken much more than a smile for them to end up here. Hawke killed for her, asked questions later, and then stood there with her jaw hanging as Isabela walked away—until Bethany punched her shoulder and told her not to even think about it. (And then, of course, thought about it with wild and furious abandon.) The first in a long line of terrible decisions made for Isabela. But standing here, scar on her middle and heart in her hands, she thinks that she'd do it all again the same.

There are times when she's overwhelmed by her nightmares, by the flashes of terror out of nowhere, by unsteady hands and burning lungs. Those are the times that drive her to her knees and seem to suck the very life from her. And then there are times when she just— _misses her._ A simpler sort of grief. It comes in waves, sometimes nearly forgotten, sometimes as ever-present as her shadow. Sometimes it's all she can think about for days: Isabela's laugh, her touch, the way she always made Hawke feel like anything at all was possible.

Anders is right; it wouldn't fix everything to have her back. But it would be something. It would be enough. 

She wanders like a sleepwalker, fingers brushing the columns, the cold tile of the walls, the threadbare tapestries. The hangings stir under her touch, as if a breeze has rippled through the room, and she closes her eyes and tries to feel whatever it is that she's supposed to feel here in this sacred place. A chill passes through her, and for a moment she thinks—

But then again, it's a cold night.

“We could strike a deal,” she says. “You don't need to bring her back. Nothing big like that. Just get her out of my head and I promise to—I don't know, be a good person. Something like that.” But only silence meets her offer—silence and a ringing in her ears.

She hesitates and tries one more time, dry eyes stinging:

“I would do anything.”

But no voice answers no matter how long she waits, and she stumbles back out into the cold night. It's started to rain, the sort of mist that chills to the bone and clings to the skin, and the clouds have obscured the stars she'd followed here.

She tilts her head up to the sky and squints into the rain. "Thanks for absolutely nothing," she shouts. "Didn't need your help anyway."

No answer comes; only the echo of her own voice. It figures. She finally starts talking to the Maker and he's not listening.

v.

Sometimes Hawke can't even remember the details. It's easy to forget about the specific little crook of Isabela's smile when she's flirting with some dark-haired sharp-tongued stranger in the Hanged Man, easy to forget about the specific burn of Isabela's mouth on her neck when she's falling into bed with someone whose name she didn't catch. Easy to forget when she's laughing with her friends, running errands for every last person in Kirkwall, dealing (or pointedly not dealing) with city politics. _I've moved on_ , she tells everyone, and they believe her, just relieved to hear it at last. And she's relieved, too, relieved that she doesn't still have Isabela's face burned into her eyelids and Isabela's laugh ringing in her ears.

But then, sometimes, it's not so easy to forget. 

There are times when she spends the whole night restlessly pacing the halls of the estate—barefoot, blanket around her shoulders, looking and feeling half-mad. How can you forget someone when she's literally drawn herself into every corner of your life, when time has turned your home into a mausoleum? That's the question written into all the carvings in the walls, the dirty books mixed in on the shelves, and the dirty poetry scrawled in the margins of all the perfectly respectable books. Or the notes (sometimes as obscene as the books and sometimes so sweet that they daze her, not quite able to remember a time so lovely) tucked into little corners; those are the worst of all.

It would be wise, she thinks, to throw all these papers away. The right thing to do, probably. But she's never been much for wisdom, and so she slides them back into place with trembling fingers and drifts through the halls, waiting for the sun to rise and banish all her ghosts.

She's gotten better at managing the transition from these dark nights back into the world of the living. It's not easy; she still moves slower than she used to, still flinches at the cries of _Champion!_ that follow her through the streets. Sometimes the world seems so unfamiliar. But things are as close to normal as they've ever been: too many bandits, too many card games, countless late nights laughing with her friends. And that's something, she thinks. It's something.

“Hawke,” Varric prompts, tugging her head out of the clouds.

“What? Is it my turn?” She glances down at her cards and then back up, eyes wide, as close as she can come to the perfect picture of innocence. Varric isn't buying it.

“Let's see your hand,” he demands. His own cards are splayed in front of him and he's drumming his fingers on the edge of the table. He's nervous—they all look nervous. She's been losing all night, just consistently enough to be suspicious, and tensions are so high that she can practically feel the air crackling around the table. Hawke can't remember the last time she felt this pleased with herself.

She drops her cards on the table, rocks back in her chair, and beams as the table erupts. “Read 'em and weep. I think I'll collect my winnings now.”

Aveline is the first to overcome her sputtering, red-faced anger. It's not often that they manage to rope her into one of these games and she never takes kindly to losing. “I'll haul you off to the dungeons before I give you a single coin.”

“Can't arrest me. I'm the Champion.” Hawke grins and lifts her mug in a mocking toast.

“She's getting a big head,” Varric says, slamming his hand on the table; the coins in front of him rattle at the blow, and Hawke itches to pocket them. “Who's going to help me pick her up and dunk her in the harbor?”

“Happily,” Fenris and Anders declare as one, an argument of moments ago forgotten in favor of this higher calling. Fenris looks like he really might be ready to drag her away; he, too, has been known to be less than a gracious loser. (Actually, Hawke thinks, she's not sure any of her friends are particularly gracious. It's nice to all have something in common.)

“Hawke,” Merrill interrupts, so timid that no one hears her until she repeats herself. “Hawke, why do you have all those cards tucked into your boot?”

In the long moment of silence that follows, it occurs to Hawke that she probably won't be leaving with full pockets tonight.

“Let's see 'em, Daisy,” Varric orders. Merrill sticks her slender fingers into Hawke's left boot, tugging the cards out one by one. With each one that she lays neatly on the table, the glares on all sides grow grimmer.

When Merrill at last straightens up, her work complete, Varric snatches the cards and fluidly shuffles them back into the deck. “You know the rules. Pass your tankard around.”

Hawke moans as her half-empty mug is filled back up, the dregs of each of her friends' drinks added one after another, mingling in one hellish concoction. Aveline's ale, Varric's whiskey, whatever deeply-suspicious dark liquor Fenris has, Merrill's fizzy dandelion wine, Anders' glass of _milk._ “This is cruel,” she objects, but it's halfhearted. These are the rules, and there's no fighting the rules.

Three years ago, if she'd been caught like this—a frequent enough occurrence in a game based on rampant cheating—the rules would have demanded the removal of her boots. Her tunic the second time, her breeches the next. Their games used to end with everyone all but naked, pink-cheeked with strategically crossed legs, while Isabela filled up her coin purse. And then Hawke would follow her upstairs, they'd fall into bed, and Hawke would find half a deck tucked into Isabela's corset.

There were some nights when they wouldn't do much more than sit awake, laughing and talking until the sun came up as Isabela tried to teach Hawke sleight of hand tricks. But Hawke made for a terrible student. Too easily distracted, too willing to toss the cards across the floor and focus instead on learning every inch of Isabela. Hawke eventually got good at making a few cards disappear—but, she thinks as her mug returns to her hands, not good enough.

But the rules are different now.

Lots of things are different now.

She peers into the mug, eyes the sour-smelling and curdled-looking drink, and lets out the most exaggerated sigh she can muster. No one looks particularly sympathetic. "If I die," she declares, a theatrical tremble to her voice, "make sure everyone knows that I was cruelly betrayed by my closest friends. May my death serve as a warning against trusting foul fiends and scoundrels."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be sure to include that detail," Varric chuckles. "What are you waiting for?"

Hawke downs the drink with a great deal of trouble; it's strong and thick, burning a path down her throat and settling in her stomach like hot lead. She slams down the empty mug, gasps, and aims a finger at no one in particular. “Monsters, all of you," she declares over their roaring laughter and  applause. "I'm leaving before I have to crawl out of here.”

Everyone objects except for Merrill, who squeezes her hand beneath the table. Hawke hadn't noticed her fingers were shaking until, suddenly, they're still.

“I'll walk home with you,” Merrill offers. Hawke grips her hand in relieved acceptance. Merrill's smile is as warm as the summer sun, the brightest light in the whole bar; Hawke's so grateful for her that she thinks her heart might burst.

They stagger out into the street together—or Hawke staggers, and Merrill clings to her, trying to keep her upright. "Oh, lethallan," she giggles. "We shouldn't have made you do that. You look so silly. You aren't going to be sick, are you?"

The best that Hawke can manage is a strangled sort of  _eugh_.

When they finally make it back to Hawke's estate, she's a little less dizzy and a little less nauseous, but no less lonely. “Come inside,” she offers, and Merrill follows without hesitation.

Merrill understands in a way that the others don't. It's frustrating, sometimes, when all Hawke wants is for everyone to accept tight smiles and stilted jokes, and Merrill sees right through her—but she doesn't know what she'd do without her. Merrill doesn't bother with all the talk of anger and denial; Merrill doesn't insist on feeling certain ways at certain times. She  _misses_ her. And that's enough for Hawke.

They don't talk about Isabela often, not out loud, but they seek each other out sometimes, eager for their shared understanding and the comfort of another aching heart. They're experts, now, at sensing the need in the other. And so Merrill guides her up the stairs and they tumble into Hawke's bed—laughing, kicking back the sheets—until a still silence settles over them. 

Merrill speaks first. “You're sad. You're thinking about her again,” she says softly, and all Hawke can do is shrug and fold herself into her, two bodies pressed together, Merrill her only touchstone in the darkness.

“Of course I am. Sometimes I don't think I'll ever be over her.”

“You won't be,” Merrill says, sounding certain. “But you'll be alright.”

“Comforting, thanks.” Hawke laughs and presses her face into Merrill's bony shoulder. She smells of pine and cold and peace. “How am I supposed to be alright if I never get over her?”

Merrill strokes her hair with cool, careful fingers. She gives the question a moment of weighty consideration. “Maybe you'll find each other again. Maybe you're supposed to be pulled apart and then drawn back together. Like a springy sort of thing. Like one of those funny plants.”

“We weren't pulled apart,” Hawke says. She fidgets with a loose thread on the blanket, and Merrill's hand closes over hers, holding it still. “She ran away.”

“Maybe she'll run back. You were so good together,” Merrill says earnestly. “Oh, you made something so lovely together! Don't you think so?”

“I know. I wish she'd known, too.”

“She did, I think. But Isabela's scared of lovely things.” Hawke can feel Merrill nodding resolutely, like she's sure of this proclamation. 

Hawke shrugs and falls silent. It's an odd and unfamiliar thought: Isabela, scared. She's not quite sure what to make of it.

"Everyone pretends we didn't all love her so long. Aveline always says we need to accept that she's gone. But I don't think her book can be right, can it? Or maybe she's reading it wrong. I think it's better to accept that we miss her." Merrill pauses. "Sometimes Aveline looks so sad. But she says it's not my business when I ask. I don't understand why everyone wants to be sad alone. I like it better when we're sad together, don't you?" 

Hawke swallows around the lump in her throat. Her words come out choppy. "I wish I could just—say that I miss her. Without everyone acting concerned, like there's something wrong with that. With me." She hesitates and laughs. "I mean, there's plenty wrong with me, really. But it's different."

They're both quiet for a long moment. At last, Merrill sighs. "I miss her, too."

"Do you really think she might come back?"

 She hesitates, answer enough by itself. There's a quiver in her voice when she speaks. "I'm glad we knew her," she says. "That's what matters."

Hawke closes her eyes. Merrill's fingers are gentle, pushing through the knots in her hair; she feels young and small and so very tired. “So what if I never get over her and she never comes back? I'm not exactly thrilled about the prospect of feeling like this forever.”

“Then you have us. You have me and Aveline and Varric and Fenris and Anders and so many people who love you. And we'll all love you so much and so hard that one morning you'll wake up and the sorrow won't seem so big. Have faith in that.”

“I do,” Hawke says. She means it.

Slowly, each day, things get easier.

vi.

Hawke can sense her before she can see her.

It's always been like that—the two of them breathing in sync from across the battlefield or the bedroom, always moving in perfect harmony, aware of nothing but each other. This time is no different. Isabela's presence knocks the air from her lungs the second she steps into the Hanged Man. Hawke pauses, frozen in the doorway, eyes darting across the room until—

 _There._ At the bar. And then Isabela looks back at her, and time grinds to a halt.

She's the same, only—she's not. Unfamiliar creases around her eyes, different bangles in her ears, a new uncertainty in her gaze. She looks...harder, Hawke thinks, like she did when they first locked eyes in this same room. No. Harder than that. Like a wounded animal, some half-drowned creature torn between fight and flight. And it startles her, the divide between this woman and the woman she remembers.

Three years in Kirkwall and Isabela had gone soft around the edges, always the first to smile and laugh, so tender and fierce and free. Three years gone, and they circle each other like strange beasts once again. And for a moment, staring across the room into her inscrutable gaze, Hawke thinks that she doesn't know this woman at all. She's looking at a stranger.

But then Isabela shifts, just a little, and Hawke sees it. A red scarf around her arm, a beacon—a little ragged, a little frayed, but there nonetheless. Hawke's throat catches at the sight. She wonders if she's worn it every day she's been gone, or if she's simply held onto it, waiting for this day—waiting to come back.

And she did.  _She came back._ Hawke wants to run to her, grab her hands, kiss each calloused fingertip, and beg: _tell me everything, every moment of the last three years._ But she's frozen in place, too terrified that any sudden movement might send her running again, up in smoke. It wouldn't be the first time that she's woken from this dream.

All she can do is stare, hands shaking, heart in her throat, as Isabela stares back.

And then someone behind her gives Hawke a shove that sends her stumbling across the room. When she catches herself, she looks up to see Isabela an arm's length away, awkwardly half-risen, half-smiling. A spell is broken.

“That was Aveline, just so you know,” Isabela says, with a little quirk of a smile that says: _of course it was Aveline_ and _look, we can smile at each other, everything can be the same again_ and _hi, you_. 

Hawke laughs, giddy and dizzy and weak at the knees, and blinks the tears back from her eyes. “Hi,” she says. "Isabela. Hi."

"Hawke," Isabela says. There's something about the sound of her name in Isabela's voice—the soft lilting swell of it, the way that no one else has ever made her name sound so lovely. Hawke thinks that she's never heard a sweeter sound in all her life; she knows she's never seen a better sight than Isabela here and real in front of her.

Her best efforts to steady her spinning head don't do much good. She attempts to sound casual, but she's certain Isabela must be able to hear the pounding of her telltale heart. “Come here often?”

“Not lately,” Isabela says. She's almost smiling, but not quite. "I'm thinking about making a habit of it, though."

Something doesn't feel right—they'd had a rhythm once, Hawke thinks, in another life, but she can't find it again. It's gone, and they're left here shadowboxing, grasping at something out of reach. She does her best to grin. "You should. It's a fine establishment. The mystery meat is exquisitely mysterious."

"Well, in that case, I'm sold." Isabela gives her one more almost-smile and lowers herself back into her seat at the bar. She rests her chin on her palm and fixes Hawke with a searching stare, face unreadable, as if they're looking at each other for the very first time. 

Hawke opens her mouth and closes it again; her mind's gone blank, and she can't manage to come up with any witty retort, any faint semblance of charm. She glances over her shoulder. She doesn't see the others; they've gone, dissipated into the crowd. Now it's just her and Isabela and—everything. It's all too much. She pauses, falters, and wraps her arms around herself to keep from falling to pieces; her voice cracks and her eyes water when she speaks. "I don't—I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"I wasn't expecting to be here. But I am." Isabela drums her fingers on the counter. The hint of a smile has vanished from her face; her gaze flits from one corner of the room to another, landing anywhere but on Hawke. She doesn't offer any further explanation.

Hawke's broken the most important rule: she's shown her hand. But she can't help it, and the words spill out, three years of questions wrapped into one. "Where were you?"

Isabela exhales, sharp and impatient. "I don't know, Hawke. I was all over. I'm here now. Sit down. Don't make a scene."

Hawke obeys unthinkingly and takes the seat beside Isabela. They're inches apart, pressed together in the forced intimacy of the crowded bar, close enough that their knees bump; Isabela flinches away at the touch and Hawke feels sick. "Why are you here now?"

At last, Isabela's gaze lands on Hawke, her eyes as bright and fierce as fire, as dangerous as molten gold. She's so close that Hawke could kiss her. "Does it really matter?"

"It does to me."

She purses her lips. She's jumpy, eyes flashing, fingers tapping out an erratic beat, like she's anticipating some dark monster leaping out of the corner. Like Hawke's the monster in the corner. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

Isabela gives her a scornful glance and looks away again, eyes trained on the wall in front of her. "I don't know what I was thinking. I don't know what I'm doing here," she snaps. She looks like she's seconds away from rising and running.

Hawke can feel the hot tears swelling behind her eyes again, can feel her voice break in a desperate, frantic plea, and the shame of it makes her chest ache. This isn't what she wanted; she always thought she'd be collected. Prepared. But it's all she can do to speak. "Then why did you come back?"

"I wanted a drink. How about that? Can't it be that simple?" She tilts her head back. "Why do you always have to have things spelled out for you, Hawke? Why can't things ever just  _be_ with you?"

"Just say it," Hawke says, faint. "Please, just this once."

"I wanted to see you." She spits it out like it's a dare, a challenge, like it's not the one thing Hawke's been dreaming of hearing for three years. She closes her eyes; her shoulders slump and her voice softens. "I just needed to see you. I missed you. Alright?"

Hawke takes a breath. Her head feels light. "Alright."

"Alright," Isabela repeats, quiet. She looks back up and they stare at each other for a moment. When their knees knock again, Isabela doesn't pull away.

"Why did you go?"

For a moment, she looks like she might not answer. And then she shakes her head. “I don't know. I was afraid. Of—of everything, really. I was afraid you wouldn't make it and I'd be left here knowing it was all my fault and—I couldn't bear that. I had to run as far as I could and think about everything other than you. Only it was harder than I expected. And then I was afraid,” she says, not quite looking at Hawke, “that once I was gone—you wouldn't want me to come back, not after what I'd done. And so I stayed away. Until I couldn't.”

Hawke swallows. “I missed you every day.”

“You should be angry.” Isabela runs her fingers along the rough edge of the bar. “I would understand if you were.”

“I was,” Hawke says. “I was angry and I was sad and I was confused. All sorts of things. But you're here now, and that's enough.”

Isabela glances at her, brow furrowed in the faintest of perplexed frowns, and then looks back at her drink. She shakes her head and manages a tiny smile. “I worked so hard to forget about you. But every time I saw some blue-eyed stranger trip over their own feet after half a drink, all I could think about was you. It got a bit irritating, actually.”

Hawke smiles. “That's a little rude for a compliment, but I'll take what I can get. Were there a lot of graceless blue-eyed strangers where you were?”

“A few. None quite as graceless as you.”

"I'm honored." Hawke smiles again, ducks her head, and hesitates, turning her jumbled thoughts over in her mind. "It's just... I just—"

"Hawke," Isabela interrupts, voice quiet and eyes pleading. "No more questions? Just for right now?"

"That's—yes, yeah, of course." Hawke trips over her words, eager to stammer out whatever reassurance she needs. Anything. It seems a bit soon, she thinks, to say things like  _you're enough_ and _you've always been enough_ and _none of the rest of it matters._ There will be time for that later. And so she carefully sets those thoughts aside and grins instead, feeling almost like herself again. "Just one more. Did you bring me any souvenirs?"

Isabela laughs, and this time the sound is startled and sincere. "I picked out hundreds, only—you'll never believe this—they all got lost on the way. Every single one. Terrible coincidence. Absolutely awful."

They both laugh, shift a little closer to each other, and exchange shy sidelong glances. On a sudden brave impulse, Hawke reaches out and catches Isabela's hand in hers. “Stay,” she says, almost a question—but not quite. No more questions.

Isabela's fingers close around Hawke's. “That's... that's the plan this time, believe it or not."

Hawke stares down at their tangled fingers and glances back up to see Isabela's smile. This time, it reaches her eyes—wide and warm and unimaginably lovely. It's not this easy; Hawke knows that, knows better than to dream too much. They've got miles to go. But for one single moment, she feels like nothing could hurt her ever again.


End file.
